Unholy Night by Seth Grahame-Smith

for being the bearer of what he had to say. But someone had to do it. The king had to know. Tonight, of all nights…
    “Mighty Herod,” he said.
    The king spun around and found him already in a deep, apologetic bow.
    “What?”
    “Mighty Herod, I…I must inform you of—”
    The advisor had come out of his bow and met Herod’s eyes. Those horrible, yellowed eyes cutting through him. The advisor suddenly realized that he’d lost all power of speech.
    “Of WHAT?”
    “I…it is my sad duty to…”
    “Use your tongue or I’ll have it cut out of your mouth!”
    The advisor gave up all hope of getting the words out and simply pointed to the east wall. Herod’s yellowed eyes traced the path of his arm.
    “What?” he asked. “What would you have me look at? All I see are my columns and the spineless nobles hiding behind them.”
    “Perhaps…if Your Highness would condescend to look out one of the windows…”
    Herod was tired. He was tired, and he wanted this wretched day to be over. Whatever this idiot was trying to tell him, it couldn’t be any worse than the humiliation he’d suffered earlier. He dragged his tired feet across the stone floor, toward the eastern wall.
    Realizing that the king would see them if they stayed put, the advisors, wise men, and courtiers who’d been hiding behind the columns shuffled toward the rear of the throne room. They retreated as quietly as they could as the king neared—but not quietly enough to escape his attention. Did they think he was deaf? Blind? Did they think a great king held on to his throne for thirty years by being a fool?
    Herod was struck by a wonderful vision as he passed the columns and neared the east wall. A vision of a world in which he was the sole inhabitant. A world with no outlaws to chase. No duplicitous courtiers or inept generals, no diseased whores or beautiful, covetous sons. A world with no fools to suffer. Perhaps that’s what heaven would be like when he arrived. A whole world for himself. A world to build in his own image. It was a nice thought.
    On reaching one of the windows behind the columns and looking out, Herod understood why it had been so hard for the advisor to tell him. He also knew his long night was only beginning. His breath was taken away by what he saw, even in the instant before he’d fully comprehended what it meant. For there, in the eastern sky beyond the silhouette of the Great Temple, was a star brighter than any star he’d ever seen.
    “The prophecies, Your Highness.”
    The advisor was cowering behind him. Waiting for the outburst he knew would come. But Herod felt no scream crawling up his throat. No rage climbing up his crooked spine. He was almost…amused by it all. Earlier in the day, he’d had the Antioch Ghost in his dungeon. Now, only a few hours later, the Ghost was a free man, and—if one believed in ancient prophecies—the heavens had just signaled the arrival of the man who would topple all the kingdoms of the world, including Herod’s.
    Perhaps it was the soreness in his throat. Perhaps it was just the fact that he was exhausted. But when Herod next spoke, he did so with a soft, almost affectionate voice.
    “Call the generals back in, please.”
    The Antioch Ghost would have to wait. He had bigger problems.

IV
     
    T hey’d been arguing about what it was. A comet? A fire burning on a clouded hillside? Was it, as Melchyor feared, the all-seeing eye of Herod himself, looking down on them? Whatever it was, it was bright. A small sun, hanging low in the sky to their left, washing out all the other fires in the heavens as they rode south.
    The wise men needed a place to stop and rest for a couple of hours. None of them had slept more than a minute or two the night before, and they had a journey of untold length and hardship ahead. It couldn’t be Jerusalem. Not with Herod’s men kicking down every door in the city looking for them. And it couldn’t be the desert, either. Not with that thing up